


Fool Me Once, Shame On You

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Games, Precarious Alliance, Prelude to Later Relationships, Serial Killers, Trust Issues, manhunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6125761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this early pre-series AU, a young Neal Caffrey has evolved into a serial killer—or has he? The FBI certainly thinks so, but Peter Burke has his doubts. Over time, the diligent agent is drawn into a web of grisly murders and dangerous intrigue, until ultimately, he must put his own life on the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come On, Let's Play!

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the title of this fiction, the entire quote is as follows: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

_The arterial cascade of blood felt warm as it gushed over his gloved hand. Primal gurgling and bubbling were the only sounds in the room, as frenzied fingers dug at his wrist. The struggle was but a brief interlude before the victim sagged in his vice-like embrace. The slim, dark-haired man then gently lowered dead weight to the floor. Kneeling down beside the now quiescent corpse, the assassin trailed the black origami rose down the contours of a cheekbone awash in gore. He let a smirk grace his lips as he acknowledged that he had definitely stepped up the ante. “Game on, Agent Burke. Come and play!”_

~~~~~~~~~~

     Those were almost the exact words that ASAC Hughes used when he called Agent Peter Burke into his office and slapped down the grisly pictures of a crime scene from an upscale Manhattan apartment.

     “He’s upping the ante, Peter, and he needs to be stopped!” Hughes said angrily.

     Peter was appalled. He had been chasing Neal Caffrey, an amazing forger, extremely successful confidence man, and stealthy cat burglar for the past year. The astoundingly cunning exploits had occurred with surprising frequency both here in the States as well as a myriad of cities abroad. Art masterpieces went missing from renowned museums, Swiss banks found their vaults pilfered, and wealthy industrialists discovered their bank accounts emptied with a few keystrokes. However, for the past year, no one had been physically harmed—only their pride and their hubris. And, for the past year, there had been no calling cards left to taunt the authorities. Recently that had all changed.

     The forensics lab had done due diligence on those little, black, folded flowers that now popped up at each previously victimless crime scene. They had subjected them to every test in their arsenal of tricks, until finally, a black light had suddenly exposed the tiny white initials _“NC”_   hidden deep within the creases.

     Neal Caffrey was, and still remained, an enigma to Peter. There was precious little background information available on this young criminal, and the FBI could not seem to get a handle on his methods much less his motivations. No doubt, he was highly intelligent and loved a challenge, but now the mayhem had tipped over into murder.

     “What do the profilers make of this new development?” Peter asked his boss.

     “Oh, you know those shrinks,” Hughes waved his hand dismissively. “It’s always about some traumatic incident from his childhood that’s come back to haunt him, or they throw in that tired old adage—he gets some kind of sexual gratification out of it. Personally, I think he’s just evil to the core and doesn’t want to leave any witnesses behind.”

     “Well, let’s hope that it doesn’t become a trend,” Peter said fervently.

     Peter went to interview the doorman from the latest victim’s apartment building. The man was both scared and defensive because he knew that his job was on the line. After all, he had been the one to allow the killer access to the building.

     Peter already possessed all the background details about the deceased. Jonas Marcel was a very talented goldsmith and artisan who fashioned pieces of one-of-a-kind jewelry for those who could afford his astronomically expensive price tags. Just recently, the _New York Times_ had published a story about him, highlighting the crafter’s latest accomplishment of creating what they deemed his pièce de résistance. Marcel had taken a flawless twenty-carat canary diamond, surrounded it with sparkling white diamonds, and then suspended it on an intricately twisted platinum neck chain. Peter had pictures of it in the file. It was magnificent, if you liked that sort of gaudiness, and apparently, many ladies did. The society pages of the papers claimed that actresses, heiresses, as well as royalty were all interested in possessing it, and figures in the millions were bandied about as offhandedly as the everyday prices of produce in a neighborhood bodega. Now, no one would own that bauble because Caffrey had it in his pocket.

     “What can you tell me about the man that you let into the building on Friday night?” Peter asked.

     The door attendant sighed. Undoubtedly, he had told this story over and over since the murder had been discovered by the victim’s cleaning lady on Saturday. The coroner had put the time of death at approximately twelve hours before, so authorities had narrowed their search after the doorman admitted that a young man had come to see the victim on Friday evening.

     “Like I told the NYPD and you guys, he was sorta young, and he pulled up on a bicycle dressed like one of those messengers. He was wearing one of those skin-tight biking outfits, and had on a helmet, gloves, and blue goggles. There were piles of snow all over the place from the recent blizzard, so a lot of those dudes use goggles to protect their eyes from snow blindness. It was really cold on Friday evening, and he had a tan scarf wound around his neck and up over his mouth. He pulled the scarf down just enough to let me know that the package he had in his hand was for Mr. Marcel—said it was from a merchant down on Canal Street. All the diamond brokers are concentrated down there, so I assumed that the small padded mailer held something that Mr. Marcel needed for his work. That happened lots of times before, so I never dreamed anything was different this time.”

     Peter asked curiously, “Don’t those Hassidic Jews usually transport diamonds?”

     “Sure,” the doorman agreed. “But this was Friday evening after sundown, so couriers have to stop working and go to synagogue.”

     Peter mulled this over in his mind. A biking outfit is traditionally made out of spandex—waterproof and, in this case, blood proof. Splashes from the arterial spray erupting from Marcel’s neck most likely had been easily rinsed off with no telltale residue left behind. Forensics had found diluted amounts of the victim’s blood in the kitchen sink trap. The killer probably had used paper towels that he had then placed in his package for disposal off-site. That padded parcel also undoubtedly contained the murder weapon which, from the clean stroke through the cartilage in the trachea, was theorized to be a razor sharp stiletto.

     The FBI speculated that the bike messenger, whom they suspected was Neal Caffrey, had held the victim at knifepoint until he had opened his wall safe and surrendered the necklace. Then Caffrey had wantonly murdered the only man who had gotten a good look at his face. The necklace, most likely, was concealed in the same parcel that held the murder weapon. The door attendant confirmed that the bike messenger left the building with the package still in his hand.

     “Tell me your overall impressions of this person,” Peter instructed the doorman. “Height, weight, voice—anything, really.”

     “Well, like I said before, he seemed young, maybe in his twenties, and was about six feet tall. He was slim and well built—maybe 150 pounds tops. He was Caucasian. The hair that I saw sticking below the helmet was dark brown. I didn’t get a look at the color of his eyes—the goggles and all, ya know. His voice was low pitched but kind of muffled. I didn’t hear an accent, but then he didn’t really say much.”

     Peter didn’t think that he would get anything more useful from this nervous and harried man, and actually released him since his statement had already been recorded. The disgruntled agent then sat at his desk and pondered this new fatal predilection coming from someone whose expertise he had almost come to admire in the months gone by. Had all of Caffrey’s exploits this past year just been a dry run to work out any kinks in his performance? What had now set him off to commit the ultimate crime? Peter assumed that the young punk probably experienced a high after a successful robbery, heist, or whatever. Did that feeling of narcissistic euphoria no longer sustain a hunger for attention and one-upmanship?

     For the next week, Peter and his White Collar team, as well as an overworked metropolitan police department, scoured the neighborhoods of New York trying to turn up a lead as to Caffrey’s whereabouts. Snitches had nothing to give them, and all the known fences had never been contacted—or so they claimed. Peter tended to believe them since this latest ice was so hot, they’d be fools to get anywhere near it. It was as if Caffrey had never been in the city. 

     Peter left the White Collar office late on the next Friday evening—it was close to eight o’clock when he finally unlocked the door to his townhouse in Brooklyn. El had texted him earlier saying that she would be home very late. She was meeting with a new client out on Staten Island about an upcoming anniversary or birthday gala—Peter wasn’t sure. He had been pre-occupied at the time, and had been listening with only half an ear. So, fending for himself, he had stopped to get Thai carryout that was now sitting on the kitchen counter. Satchmo was exuberant in his greeting, as well as practically crossing his legs, so Peter hurriedly let him out the kitchen door into the fenced-in backyard. Leaving his holster and pistol slung over the back of a kitchen stool, Peter quickly jogged upstairs to divest himself of his suit and tie for comfortable jeans and t-shirt.

     A few minutes later, while jauntily descending the stairs, Peter thought that he heard Satchmo panting, and was mystified how the dog had gotten back into the house. Rounding the bottom stair newel, he came up short. His dog was indeed in the living room, and was gazing up adoringly into the face that he knew belonged to Neal Caffrey! The con man was seated in the wingchair next to the fireplace, one leg bent with his ankle crossed over his other knee. He was petting the yellow Lab with his left hand while holding Peter’s gun in his right, and that weapon was pointed directly at him.

     “Hello, Peter,” he murmured in a deceptively soft and non-threatening voice.

     “Hello, Caffrey,” Peter responded with a sense of bravado that was all show.

     “Since I’m only a lowly public servant, I have nothing of value that might be of interest for you to steal. So, have you simply decided to pay me this visit with the intention of making me your next victim?"

     The con man and possibly would-be assassin sighed deeply. “We need to talk, Agent Burke. Sit down on the sofa very slowly so that you don’t make me nervous. I don’t like guns, but I do know how to use them.”

     “Oh, that’s right, Caffrey,” Peter sneered, “your latest choice of weapon is a very sharp knife. That fact had slipped my mind.”

     Regardless of getting in that barb, Peter did comply, sitting on the very edge of the upholstered seat facing his captor.

     Caffrey immediately began his spiel. “Agent Burke, I need your help,” he claimed, pointedly ignoring Peter’s impressive eye roll.

     “Seriously, Agent Burke, I have a very big problem. I know that this is a bit extreme to get your attention, but dire situations require extreme measures. I have recently become aware that someone nefarious has been masquerading as me, and that was okay for a while. I mean, imitation is really flattering and all, but now he’s crossed the line. This dude is ruining my reputation as a gentleman criminal, and you need to set the record straight! I am as non-violent as they come. My marks never even suffered a paper cut—ever!”

     Peter had to work hard to keep his expression neutral. He wasn’t sure what game Caffrey was playing. This was certainly new territory.

     “So, you want to convince me that you didn’t murder Jonas Marcel a week ago, is that it? All of this while you’re threatening me at gunpoint. Well, that’s going to be a hard sell, Caffrey. Your little calling card was left at the scene, and the doorman can identify you.” Peter was lying through his teeth about a positive ID.

     “Agent Burke, I wasn’t even in the country a week ago,” the con man protested.

     When Peter just donned a skeptical expression, the young man huffed out a breath and shook his head.

     “Agent Burke—Peter—check with Interpol. They will confirm that a certain countess’s ruby-encrusted tiara went missing last Friday from her decadent villa in Malta. It was swapped out with a replica made of plastic and spinels. The regal and elegant lady might also be willing to provide an ID as positive as your local witness, since we really got up close and personal, if you get my drift. Just ask Interpol to make sure that her husband, the evil count, isn’t around when they question her. He is definitely the jealous type and I wouldn’t want any harm to come to the gracious woman.”

     “Alright,” Peter hedged, “how about those little calling cards at all the crime scenes?”

     “What cards? I don’t know to what you are referring,” the young man looked puzzled.

     Peter did not want to tip his hand. The authorities had kept that piece of information out of the press to weed out liars, and those mentally unbalanced people who loved to gain media attention by confessing to crimes that they hadn’t committed.

     “You have left the same unique object containing your initials at all of the last several crime scenes.”

     “Now why would I be stupid or brazen enough to do that, Peter?” Neal wanted to know.

     Peter just lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. He really was perversely interested in what the criminal would say. He studied Neal as the young man’s brow furrowed, and it appeared that the con artist was giving this new insight some serious thought. The pistol that he was holding was inching downward as he became distracted, but as Peter moved, he quickly leveled it once more.

     “Stop looking for an opportunity to throttle, strangle, or beat me to a pulp, Peter. It’s not happening tonight, so just chill your jets and help me brainstorm.”

     “Oh no, Buddy,” Peter huffed out, “this is all on you. I would rather hear what lies that you come up with, Neal. C’mon! Regale and entertain me with your clever, silver tongue.”

     Neal gave the FBI agent the stink eye, but started to theorize, nonetheless. “Maybe this new upstart is uncertain that he can make a name for himself, so he’s piggybacking onto my reputation. I’ve laid the groundwork, so to speak, and he thinks that he can just slide right in and claim all the accolades. He wants attention without having to put in the time. Maybe his crimes lack finesse, and are so inelegant that he’s afraid you would never even give a thought that they were my work without a blatant signature.”

     “That’s the best that you’ve got, Neal? It’s not very convincing,” Peter taunted.

     “Agent Burke, have I ever left my name for you to find at any of my alleged ventures? Of course not! That’s because my escapades were so well crafted and executed that the stupendous scenarios themselves were a calling card. There was no need for me to slash a big “Z” on the wall like Zorro to get your attention.”

     Peter continued to look less than convinced. “Okay, Neal, so you’ve pled your case, but I’m not buying it. Where do we go from here?”

     “I can help you catch this dude, Peter. We could share information and work together, and he wouldn’t stand a chance with both of us on his trail.”

     “Well that’s definitely not an option, Neal—not even in the ballpark. What were you snorting before you came here tonight?”

     Of course, Neal just gave him a sad, kicked-puppy look and sighed.

     “I’m certainly disappointed, Peter, but I’m not going to beg. Just remember that I offered my assistance with no strings attached. However, since you have chosen to decline my rather remarkable expertise, now I suppose that I will just have to do all the heavy lifting myself. But, if you change your mind and want to form an alliance to fight the forces of evil in the universe, you can text me on this. My contact number is programmed into the speed-dial,” he concluded as he tossed Peter a burner phone.

     The young con man then stood and began backing out of the room towards the rear door. After opening it wide, he tossed Peter his FBI issued firearm and disappeared into the darkness beyond. Peter rushed to the kitchen to peer into the night, coming away with just a vague impression of a tall silhouette vaulting over the high wooden privacy fence and disappearing from sight. Peter knew that he could never catch the younger man in a foot race, so he simply turned to peer down at Satchmo, who was whining softly.

     “Well, you were certainly no help!” he told the dog emphatically.

     It was then that the FBI agent noticed that the bullets from his gun were lined up precisely, like soldiers in parade formation, on the kitchen counter.

     When El got home at ten o’clock, Peter did not get a chance to fill her in on the unexpected visitor because his excited wife literally danced through the front door enthusiastically bubbling over about her potential new client, Mr. Haversham. The quaint, endearing little man was contemplating hiring Burke Premier Events to cater an elegant cocktail party for one hundred of his nearest and dearest friends in his penthouse apartment on Riverside Drive!

~~~~~~~~~~

_The blue-eyed young man allowed himself a self-satisfied little smile as he blended into the night. It had all been so easy. He had a talent for morphing into what people expected to see—what they wanted to see. Then the next step was to convincingly plead your case and wait for them to waver. “Decent” and “gullible” people almost always did as you wanted them to do because humans were so utterly predictable. He had counted on that to set his plan in motion. And what a stupendous scheme it had been—so far, his best effort. Your move, Agent Burke._


	2. More of the Same

     Peter made it a priority to go to his office early on Saturday morning. He quickly calculated the time difference between Europe and the United States, and sent a brief email off to Interpol requesting any information about a theft involving a countess on the tiny archipelago of Malta in the Mediterranean Sea. While he awaited a reply, he went over last night’s event.

     Caffrey never disappointed—he was always unpredictable and audaciously brash. Showing up in Peter’s home was the ultimate display of chutzpa. Even though the trespasser had appeared believable with his denials, that was his stock in trade, right? He gained your trust and then screwed you the first chance that he got. Last night was probably just an opportunity to rub everything in Peter’s face, a means of taunting the FBI for its ineptitude. Caffrey probably was laughing his ass off after he made his escape.

     Peter knew that he should have pursued the con man, but logically he also knew that would have been an exercise in futility. The back gate had a padlock on it, and even if he had rushed inside to get the key, the middle-aged federal agent doubted that he could have caught up with the agile and physically fit young fugitive. If, by some far-fetched chance, Peter had actually gotten Caffrey in his sights, what was he supposed to do—throw his empty gun at the guy and hope to connect with the back of his head to render him unconscious? Now, Peter’s fingers were absently ghosting over the burner phone in his pocket. A link, no matter how precarious, was still a link. He would decide how to utilize it after he collected more data.

     A half hour later, there was yet to be a reply from Interpol, but the usual solitude of the weekend FBI office was inexplicably shattered when agents began pouring in from elevators that stopped on the 21st floor. Hughes, himself, made an appearance, and his determined, unleashed wrath was surely tempting an imminent stroke.

     “Peter, he’s struck again, and this time there are three dead bodies! There’s an APB out, and I sincerely hope that the LEOs shoot to kill if they corner him.”

     Clinton Jones and Diana Berrigan appeared with two detectives from the 23rd precinct in Manhattan, and the “Caffrey” team assembled in the conference room for a briefing. The 23rd precinct comprised East Harlem, north of East 96th Street, a primarily residential and commercial community, and it was also home to a small branch of a local credit union—“First Members Financial.” The banking institution traditionally remained open a little later on Friday nights to accommodate laborers and tradesmen ending their workweeks and needing to deposit or cash checks to tide them over until the open of business on Monday.

     When one of the tellers failed to return home that evening and was not answering her cell, a frantic husband contacted police. However, the follow-up to his complaint did not occur until this morning when a bank manager allowed the police access. What they found was hauntingly tragic and indelibly etched on their brains. Unfortunately, they would never be able to unsee it. In the bank’s empty cash vault, three bodies—two female tellers and a junior bank manager—were all crowded together on the tile floor, their faces frozen in the rictus of death.

     Peter studied the enlarged crime scene photos carefully. There were no obvious signs of trauma to their bodies, no pooling blood, no gaping slash marks, or gunshot wounds.

     “How did these victims die?” Peter asked one of the detectives.

     “This asshole is one sick puppy,” the disgusted lead detective informed Peter. “Our forensics team found pieces of glass on the floor of the vault. Apparently, the perpetrator cooked up his own little science fair project—a combination of bleach and ammonia. When those two household items are mixed together, they interact and form chlorine gas that, in a small, enclosed space, causes respiratory collapse and death. Our guys think that the glass container that he used had two separate compartments, but when he smashed it against the wall, the liquids mixed allowing the toxic gas to be released. The coroner confirmed that the victims all died as a result of respiratory arrest, and their deaths were excruciatingly painful.”

     Peter found himself speechless.

     “Caffrey got away with approximately one and a half million from the vault,” the detective continued. “And we found this outside the killing field on a desk where patrons can fill out deposit and withdrawal slips.”

     The disgusted man then flipped a plastic evidence bag onto the table. Inside was another black origami rose.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Sometime later in the day, Peter and his “Caffrey” team were tediously pouring over footage provided by the bank manager from their surveillance cameras. Just before the bank was to close that Friday evening, a tall Caucasian man in a long, black overcoat and sporting a fedora entered the bank. He obviously knew where the cameras were located, and kept his hat brim pulled low and his head down. He never approached either of the tellers. He turned and busied himself at the small counter that stood in front of plate glass windows facing outward onto the street. He fiddled with some deposit slips with his gloved hands. Wearing gloves would not appear unusual since the outside temperature was hovering in the upper twenties. At one point while he loitered, he removed his wallet and placed it on the countertop. Without conducting any transactions, he then unobtrusively exited the bank.

     A few minutes after the bank manager had locked the doors at the close of the extended business hours, the same unidentifiable man re-appeared and knocked on the door. One of the tellers approached and spoke briefly to him through the glass. The back of her head occluded any clear image of the suspect’s face. The teller eventually turned and approached that small rear counter. She immediately spotted the abandoned wallet and returned to the door with it in her hand. She turned the key and opened the door just enough to extend the wallet to the customer, but he took advantage of the opportunity to shove her backwards and push his way inside. Now he was brandishing a pistol that he had withdrawn from under his coat. He hurriedly herded the tragic trio out of camera range to the vault area. The last time that he appeared on camera was when he again slipped through the front doors with a knapsack over each shoulder. Street cams lost him in the crowd, and most likely, he had used one of the subway entrances to make his escape.

     Peter watched the footage over and over, his eyes becoming red and irritated. Enhancements were no help, giving them nothing new to go on. All that the authorities possessed was the familiar calling card. Everything about this lethal caper was infuriating and frustrating. However, there were a lot of things that did not ring true in Peter’s mind. This gruesome crime was not elegant; it was not sophisticated; it had no style or finesse. And it was not Caffrey’s work. The timestamp on the bank footage showed that it had been precisely 8:12 PM when the unidentified man shoved his way through the door. At 8:12 PM on Friday night, Neal Caffrey had been petting a very contented Labrador Retriever and chatting with Peter!

~~~~~~~~~~

     For the next week, that burner phone remained hidden and quiescent in Peter’s pocket while the confused agent created a multitude of possible scenarios in his mind. Did Caffrey have an accomplice or a protégé who was committing some of the current crimes? Perhaps, the two were working together and simply trying to muddy the waters. But then why did the most recent perpetrator leave damning little black roses with the con man’s initials for the cops to find? Did he have a vendetta against Caffrey, or was this just his sick way of saying, “Take notice of me, my friend. Whatever you can do, I can do better, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty in the process.” One version of Neal Caffrey was intimidating enough; two versions were a catastrophe of epic proportions.

     Peter kept quiet about Neal’s visit to his home on Friday night. He wasn’t quite ready to stick his neck out yet, no matter how earnest that version of Caffrey seemed. Peter knew that the con man was slick and calculating, and Peter did not relish being his next mark!

     On Thursday of the following week, Interpol finally got back to Peter. It had taken them some time to track down Count Bartolomeo Lazzarini and his wife, the Countess, abroad their luxury yacht in the Mediterranean. The obnoxious, entitled blowhard confirmed that a priceless family heirloom—a ruby-encrusted tiara—had been stolen from their villa, and a cheap replica left in its place. He had filed an insurance claim, but the piece had been vastly under-insured. He then reminded them that one could not put a price on sentimental value. The odious Count was only too eager to point the finger at his wife’s personal trainer, an American named Nicholas Halden. He even gave a very accurate description of the blue-eyed, dark-haired young stud, down to the dimples around his mouth. Of course, Halden had mysteriously disappeared right after the theft.

     So okay, Peter reasoned in his logical mind, it would seem that Caffrey did have alibis for two of the murder scenarios. However, that did not make him completely innocent of everything else. He was still a person of interest in a multitude of other frauds, forgeries, robberies, and swindles that authorities around the globe were investigating. Not to mention, that right this very minute there was an aggressive all-out manhunt going on for him here in New York City. Mulling over Caffrey’s proposal to aid in the investigation, the cynical agent wondered exactly how the con man expected to be of any help to Peter when he couldn’t even stick his head up above ground.

~~~~~~~~~~

     _In a touch of irony,_ _the slim, dark-haired man was thinking of Peter at the same time as the agent was dwelling on his Caffrey dilemma. Right now, the murderer was holed up quite comfortably in his safe house, and felt reasonably protected and secure. Actually, with a bit of time on his hands, he was leisurely strategizing new plans and thinking dark thoughts._

_“How are you holding up under all this pressure, Agent Burke? Are you ready to throw in the towel yet and admit that I am more clever than you? You used to think that you had Neal Caffrey all figured out—all quantified and pigeonholed, but now you aren’t so sure. I’m right, aren’t I? You are having a crisis of the soul and you don’t know what to make of these new exploits. You have doubts and no longer trust your own instincts. I am pushing you to your breaking point, and I will continue to push until you disappear over the edge. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, my friend. Very soon, the score of our little game will be 3 and 0—in my favor, of course.”_

~~~~~~~~~~

     One week later, Peter experienced feelings of déjà vu because another robbery occurred accompanied by two deadly murders, and, of course, one folded black rose. Although suffering from both a head and chest wound, by some miracle, one of the victims astonishingly remained alive and lucid just long enough to give an account of what happened on a fairly isolated stretch of highway leading into the city.

     An armored Brinks truck was on its way to Manhattan from nearby Newark, with the intention of dropping off various cash deliveries to several banks across the five boroughs. In route, the driver and his partner were flagged down by a helmeted highway patrol cop on a motorcycle. He informed the pair that the police had received Intel that a bomb had been planted within their truck.

     Of course, the driver and his fellow co-worker were leery at first. They had been instructed never to leave their truck if they were ever accosted by anyone. After all, an armor-plated vehicle would afford them a degree of protection. However, when they saw smoke and flames begin to shoot out from the undercarriage of their vehicle, and they felt the shock of an ensuing explosion, the frightened men quickly abandoned their posts and ran for their lives. Fleeing did not change their fates, however. When the driver looked back, the helmeted motorcycle cop was standing behind him and his partner with his pistol drawn. The imposter, without saying another word, dispassionately gunned them down in cold blood and left the scene. Unfortunately, this lone witness to the crime had not been able to give a description of the assailant’s face because the imposter had kept the visor of his helmet in place the entire time.

     Investigating detectives found evidence of a smoke bomb and a small incendiary device on the empty roadway, no doubt thrown under the armored car by the fake highway patrol officer. They also recovered pieces of a flashbang grenade, a non-lethal concussive weapon used to produce what sounded like an earth-shattering explosion from a bomb. Everything, however, had been a ruse, a magician’s slight of hand with deadly results. The armored car, although missing initially, had been expediently tracked down by its LoJack system to an abandoned chop shop in Queens. The rear doors had been opened with the driver’s keys, and the contents were all gone except for one black rose.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Neal Caffrey was now considered to be a serial killer. A new task force had been quickly mobilized incorporating all five of New York’s boroughs to end his reign of homicides. Each district sent a pair of their ace detectives to liaison with the FBI in the White Collar office on the 21st floor. Representatives from the Bureau’s Violent Crimes Division were also part of the task force that had just one mandate—take down Neal Caffrey by any means!

     Reese Hughes stood at the helm of this cumbersome ship with Peter as his second-in-command. The veteran agent urged local police to lean hard on their street contacts for information on Caffrey’s whereabouts. Rewards for information about the fugitive were being broadcast on the television. Security had been tightened at all point of egress from the city.

     “We need to get this maniac before he kills again,” Hughes decreed. “Rattle everybody’s cages in your precincts. Ferret out and sweat your snitches, your fences, your known money launderers, and your identity forgers. Threaten, cajole, and promise the moon, if you have to. Just get a handle on where he is hiding. I want this city buttoned down so tight that even his own mother wouldn’t open her door to him!”

     When Hughes ran out of self-righteous steam, he retreated to his office. Peter trailed him and quietly closed the door.

     “Reese, maybe we are looking at this thing the wrong way,” Peter began. “What if we are only seeing what the murderer wants us to see?”

     “What are you trying to say, Peter?” Hughes said irritably.

     Peter took a breath and waded in. “What if Caffrey really isn’t the one committing these acts? I have been chasing him for over a year, and his crimes were always non-violent. I find it hard to believe that, out of the blue, he would suddenly turn deadly. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

     “Peter,” Hughes said tiredly, “stop trying to make sense of what a psychopath does. We do not need to know what set him on this new path. We probably will never know because we are no wiser than all those shrinks who are still scratching their heads after some quiet, mild-mannered high school students decided to arm themselves to the teeth and create Armageddon in their classrooms. How can you comprehend why some maniac decides to enter a movie theater and open fire on families watching a superhero action flick, or take out innocent commuters with a sniper rifle on the Washington, DC Beltway? Sometimes there is only evil chaos in these deranged minds; it is just that simple. They get off on killing!”

     Peter listened politely, but he wasn’t ready to give up the argument just yet.

     “I agree with you about serial killers. Their payoff is feeling invincibly powerful because they can inflict pain and harm and get away with it. But Caffrey always managed to do the impossible without ever hurting anyone in the process. His marks usually loved him, or, at the very least, had a grudging respect for him after everything went down. I always recognized his crimes because they were committed with a dedicated precision and a remarkable finesse. That is what got my attention. I didn’t need calling cards to point the way. These current crimes are ugly and messy, and those origami roses are too blatant. They’re like that big arrow on a roadmap that says you are ‘ _Here_.’ For want of a better word, it is just too ‘ _easy’_ to give him the credit for the kills. Why would he want the world to know that he was responsible?”

     Hughes gave Peter a wry look. “Maybe for the same reason that gunslingers in the Old West like Billy the Kid put notches on their gun butts. They were proud that they were the best at killing, and they wanted everyone to know it when they saw the body count.”

     Undeterred, Peter forged on. “Well, what if I told you that I did some research and found out that Caffrey was out of the country when the first murder happened?”

     “And you know this how?” Hughes asked skeptically.

     Peter went on to describe his query to Interpol and their corresponding email stating that an Italian count claimed that Nicholas Halden, aka Neal Caffrey, had been busy stealing the family’s crown jewels at the time.

     Hughes huffed out a breath. “Peter, all you have is a vague description of some guy who may have been Caffrey, and some foreigner’s suspicion that his wife’s gym rat might have been responsible for the theft. That’s not concrete proof. Stop overthinking this and follow the actual evidence that we do have. Accept the fact that your boy has gone postal!”

     Peter knew that he could not play the last card in his hand because he had waited too long. He admitted to himself that he was a coward. He couldn’t confess to his superior that Caffrey had paid him a visit, swore that he was innocent, and even offered his assistance. Hughes might be angry enough to remove Peter from the task force, and he was not about to surrender that burner phone that was nestled in his pocket. In fact, that very evening he sent a text to the pre-programmed number. It was brief and to the point _—“We need to meet.”_


	3. Once Around the Park

     Peter was not kept in suspense for very long. Ten minutes later, a ping announced the arrival of a text.

     _“Victor’s Restaurant, tomorrow, 12 Noon. The Osso Bucco is really good. Come alone—no wires, weapons or back-up waiting in the wings. How’s that for alliteration?”_

     The next morning, Peter called Jones and told him that he intended to pound the pavement today in search of a clue to Caffrey’s whereabouts. If Hughes asked, that is what he should be told. Peter would check in later this afternoon to touch base with the task force, even if he hadn’t found any new leads.

     Peter let out his breath after the deed was done. Actually, he _would_ be out on the street running down a lead on Neal Caffrey, just in a slightly more personal way. Peter admitted that he was making excuses and splitting hairs, but he was determined to make this meeting at noon. He also knew that he was going totally rogue and placing himself directly in the line of fire, but he had to see this through. What was that old saying?—“ _Go big or go home_.” He had to either commit himself to this off-book investigation, or retire to the trenches with the rest of the troops. And Peter Burke was never complacent being a follower.

     When El came down the stairs, smartly dressed to begin her workday at her office, Peter engulfed her in a tight hug. He then kissed her deeply and, holding her face in his hands, murmured, “I love you, El, so much, and have since the very first day that I met you.”

     Elizabeth looked at her husband strangely. “Hon, is everything okay?”

     “Yeah, sure,” Peter shrugged. “I just wanted you to know that.”

     “Okaaay,” Elizabeth drew out her reply. “I do know that you love me, Peter.”

     Peter tried to tamp down his own fears as he wondered if he would ever be able to say it again after this dangerous liaison with a possible killer.

     “Well, I just wanted to say it out loud, Hon,” he finished lamely.

     Reluctantly, Elizabeth left, but not without a worried glance over her shoulder. When her husband had signed on to the White Collar Division of the FBI, she never dreamed that one day he would be dealing with serial killers. She knew that he would bravely do whatever it took to defeat the bad guys, and she prayed to God to keep him safe.

     Peter fiddled around the house for the next few hours, taking a delighted Satchmo for an impromptu walk and then cleaning his revolver. He would not be taking that weapon with him today. He would be unarmed and exposed—literally a sitting duck if Caffrey decided that Peter was to be the next notch on his gun. Six people were already dead. Would an impetuous FBI agent be a seventh victim?

~~~~~~~~~~

     Victor’s Restaurant was a mob-backed establishment located in the “Little Italy” section of Lower Manhattan near Soho and Tribeca. The FBI knew that there was a bookmaking operation being run out of a backroom, but since numerous public officials with clout frequented it, the FBI was always stymied in their attempts to obtain a warrant.

     Peter arrived ten minutes to the midday hour, and a maître d’ who probably doubled as a bouncer led him through an archway to a tiny back alcove with just three tables. All the tables remained empty as Peter’s water glass was filled and he was handed a wine list and a menu. He nervously sipped at his water, but left his menu closed as he studied the faux stucco on the walls and the mural of Venetian gondoliers propelling their slender black crafts along the canals. He kept his back to the wall as he stared at the entrance to this dark and deserted cave. No one bothered him until he discerned a determined tapping that slowly got closer and closer.

     Now Peter was curious, but totally unprepared to see a short man with an outrageously ridiculous wig approach. He had on what Peter could only describe as a costume—well-worn and creased chinos, a V-neck sweater with a flowing ascot, and a jacket encrusted with a multitude of political buttons. He was also sporting wireframe black glasses perched on his nose that made him resemble a caricature of one of the three blind mice. The tapping that Peter heard was from the white cane that the man wielded in front of his feet. Without saying a word, this apparition plopped himself down in a chair beside Peter.

     “I think that you may have the wrong table?” Peter’s response was more of a question than a statement.

     “No,” his luncheon partner answered breezily, “I’m exactly where I am supposed to be. Now, if you will be so kind as to cooperate, Bruno needs to do his thing.”

     From out of nowhere, a big, beefy and slightly menacing ‘gentleman’ pulled Peter from his seat by his lapels, pushed him against the wall and did what Peter could only classify as a very intimate frisking. Then the “blind” mouse handed the muscle-bound oaf a wand that was also drawn down every part of the FBI agent’s body. With a grunt, the goon stepped back and returned the little man’s wand to his open hand. Now the other hand was outstretched, palm up.

     “Phone battery from your personal cell, please, Agent Burke.”

     Peter complied and watched his only lifeline disappear into the man’s jacket.

     “If you’re not going to eat, Suit, then we should be on our way.”

     Not waiting for answer, the escort got to his feet, and, without any aid from his white cane, led the way through a kitchen to a back door that opened out into an alley. None of the kitchen staff who were prepping and cooking gave them anymore than a disinterested glimpse. Maybe this was just another everyday occurrence at Trattoria Victor.

     There was a yellow cab parked in the alley, and unbelievably, the blind man situated himself in the driver’s seat. They left Lower Manhattan and sedately traversed the main streets and avenues until they finally reached Central Park. The cab driver then turned in his seat and surveyed his passenger.

     “Exit the cab, get into the first horse drawn carriage in the queue, and take a leisurely ride through the park.”

     Peter simply raised his eyebrows in vexed exasperation. He was quickly losing patience with this whole experience that resembled falling down Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole.

     The hack driver matched him glare for glare. “Look, Suit, just chill. I’m not even asking you to ante up the fare that’s on my meter!”

     So, Peter did as he was told and settled back against the seat of New York’s iconic form of transportation. Even though it was still technically winter, the upper Mid-Atlantic state was experiencing one of those weirdly schizophrenic days when the temperature soared to the mid-60s. More than likely, tomorrow could bring more snow, but today the sun shown brightly and it was glorious.   

     Eventually, the clopping of the horse’s hooves stopped at the world-renowned and recently renovated and resurrected “Tavern on the Green” restaurant at Central Park West and 66th Street. Looking around, Peter saw that his original escort was leaning against the fender of another cab, although this one was clearly an unregistered version with no medallion. The odd little character opened a back door of the vehicle and bowed low to Peter after giving the carriage driver a jaunty wave. Then they were off again on this strange odyssey.

     “How much longer,” Peter demanded testily.

     “Patience, grasshopper,” was the only response that was forthcoming.

     What was to be the last leg of the journey took them to Jackson Heights in Queens. They stopped abruptly at a curb, allowing Peter to notice a tidy little Catholic church—“Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows”—and an adjacent parochial school with a fenced in playground. Looking around, he then saw a group of young African-American and Latino teenagers playing a fast and furious game of basketball on a nearby court. Right in the middle of their frenzied scrum was none other than Neal Caffrey.

     The fugitive on the lam had noticed Peter’s arrival. Surrendering the basketball to his compatriots, he gave them all high fives, and then strolled in Peter’s direction. Apparently, playing a pick-up game with the object of a citywide dragnet meant nothing to these young toughs. They were not impressed nor intimidated because they did not adhere to the rules of “The Man.”

     Caffrey was dressed in athletic shoes and sweatpants that rode low on his hips. His thin, white T-shirt clung to his body, and there was a wet patch down the front of his chest. Peter tried to evaluate the possibility of a concealed weapon on his person. Sauntering towards the Federal agent, the young man abruptly pulled up the front edge of the T-shirt to wipe the moisture from his face, and it was evident that the only thing beneath was a set of six-pack abdominal muscles. Nearing Peter, the fugitive beckoned him over to a nearby wooden bench. When the two were seated, Neal actually smiled at him.

     “I’m really glad that you decided to get in touch, Agent Burke. I was beginning to think that I was going to have to stow away on a container ship bound for South America with a cargo of old Fords and Chevys.”

     Peter was at a loss for words and just frowned at the flippant young man. With his messy mop of sweaty hair and faint sprinkling of sun-induced freckles across the bridge of his nose, he looked like he belonged on a college campus. He had no right to be cracking wise at a time like this.

     “This is serious, Caffrey!” the agent almost bellowed.

     “Peter, what’s going on? You seem a bit out of sorts,” the con artist taunted.

     “Out of sorts, you say? Well, maybe that’s because I have been given a tedious tourist excursion through Manhattan for the last hour and a half. And did I mention that I am operating on an empty stomach, and I have suffered the indignity of being sexually groped in a public establishment by an over-eager macho Italian!”

     Neal threw his head back and laughed happily. It was a musical sound and his blue eyes sparkled. “You should have tried the Osso Bucco, Peter. Then you wouldn’t be suffering the effects of low blood sugar.”

     “What I should be doing is arresting you, _Neal_!” Peter answered definitively.

     Neal looked back towards the church behind him. “Maybe I should seek sanctuary in the Church, Peter, so the law can’t touch me.”

     “English common law is a thing of the past, Buddy. That won’t cut it in New York.” Peter enlightened his comrade.

     Neal eventually sobered and asked, “Any progress on the case, Peter?”

     “After six dead victims, all we have are those little calling cards that you claim to know nothing about, Neal. Anything that you would like to share?” Peter was still holding out some of his evidence.

     “My investigator got a line on that—they’re black origami flowers, right?” Neal offered.

     Peter knew that details with such significant implications could not be kept under wraps forever. It was bound to leak out eventually because there were so many people currently working the case. However, he now knew that Caffrey wasn’t working alone.

     “So, Neal, you have a partner—perhaps a white bread version of Ray Charles,” Peter snarked as he looked pointedly in Mozzie’s direction. “Is he involved in these murders?”

     “No, Peter! He’s harmless, but he is a bona fide genius, so I use him for research and inspiration.”

      Peter snorted. “So, Buddy, inspire me. Convince me why you are the innocent victim in all of this. Got any enemies out there who are itching for you to go down hard?”

     Neal furrowed his brow. “Of course, I have occasionally pissed off some people. That’s a given in my line of work and goes with the territory. However, persons of my ilk expect to get burned from time to time. Don’t believe that tired old adage about ‘honor among thieves.’ There is no such animal. A certain strata in the questionable workforce just writes it off as a business loss. I can’t think of anyone who would go to such deadly lengths to get me off the streets.”

     Peter finally decided to weigh in. “We have researched all of the victims, and there is no common thread. They were just people who had something that this lunatic wanted and they were expendable after he got what he wanted. It’s mostly been cash, but that yellow diamond tchotchke will bring a pretty penny if he ever finds a buyer.”

     “So, the theory is that this is one perpetrator working alone?” Neal wanted to know.

     “Yeah, the prevailing theory is that the perpetrator is you, Neal!”

      “Well, that’s a false assumption on the FBI’s part, I can assure you. Let me clear up another point, Peter. _Allegedly_ , along the way, I may have _hypothetically_ appropriated some funds from individuals or institutions. One needs money to grease the wheels of industry, or so I am told. However, money is not the end-all. Most of my best work, my _allegedly_ stupendous achievements, occurred in the art world.”

     “Neal,” Peter said tiredly, “stop with the air quotes around those nebulous disclaimers. _Alleged_ has become redundant in your case. Just spit out what you want to say. I’m obviously not recording any of this.”

     The young con man got distracted. “That’s something that I have been meaning to ask, Peter. Exactly why do you believe me, at least believe me enough to show up here today with no wire and no gun? If I was that psychotic nutcase, I could be torturing you and slicing and dicing you up right now.”

     “I don’t honestly know,” Peter admitted. “Maybe it’s because you don’t fit the profile.”

     “I have a profile, Peter?” Neal seemed fascinated. “I think that I am honored and humbled by that gesture on the FBI’s part. Maybe one day I’ll get to read it,” he said almost wistfully.

     “Yeah, sure,” Peter agreed, while he wondered if Caffrey suffered from attention deficit disorder as a child. “Your lawyer can possibly get you a copy when we put you on trial. Now, can we get back to trying to solve your current problem?”

     “Right, right,” Neal agreed quickly. “Well, on our end, my friend and I have been brainstorming and, pardon the verbal air quotes, have concluded that it may all trace back to my _alleged_ thefts which this guy is obviously seeking to emulate. Ergo, he does his thing and hangs my name on it. However, nothing that NC has done so far can hold a candle to my actual work. So, that is what we use to lure him in to us. We challenge his ego—actually slander his recent work in a left-handed sort of way. We claim that anyone can use a gun or a knife to get what they want, but a true master criminal would not busy himself with the crassness of cash. A proper criminal artisan’s aspirations would be much loftier, something like a priceless painting or sculpture.

     And it just so happens that I may have something that fits the bill for our little sting. I possess the original, or possibly a forgery, of Raphael’s painting ‘ _Saint George and the Dragon’_ that was stolen from the National Gallery of Art in Washington. I can arrange to make an anonymous donation of the piece to a gallery here in New York for an authenticator to study. Once it gets a thumbs up, it could be put on display with lots of hype, maybe a cocktail reception for the art aficionados and the ‘Who’s Who’ of New York’s elite, before it is shipped back to DC.

     However, to entice our mystery man, right before the big gala you could hold a little press conference saying that although Neal Caffrey has turned to murder as of late, in his heyday, this painting would have been the ultimate temptation for him to steal right out from under everybody’s noses. We taunt the madman with the ultimate challenge. He’s tarnished my image, so now he’ll have to restore it to its former glory because we have rained on his parade.”

     “You are truly Machiavellian, Neal,” Peter said as he shook his head. “I am awed with how your mind works, but please don’t take that as a compliment.”

     “Peter, it will work,” Neal insisted. “At least we can narrow down the scope of where he’ll strike next. It sure beats the hell out of having all of your FBI buddies chasing their tails and chewing on donuts while they scratch their heads!”

     “Your cockamamie plan has a lot of moving parts, Neal.”

     “Peter, you just need a can-do attitude. Your wife’s company can put together the gala. Mr. Haversham feels really bad about bailing on that chic cocktail party that he was planning, so he can secure the gig for her because he’s got connections.”

     Peter’s vision blurred and he grabbed Neal by the front of his shirt. “You and your squirrely, pint-sized cohort stay away from my wife, you little bastard. Do I make myself clear, because if anything happens to her, I will end you!”

     Neal held up his hands in surrender. “Got it, Peter, loud and clear. But I assure you that Haversham is as benign as they come, and he thought that your wife was really nice. I have never met the lady, but I’ll take his word for it.”

     When Peter continued to glare and not release his strangle hold, Neal tried to persuade him. “Peter, please, I promise. Can you stop trying to choke me now?”

     Peter did let go, but the tension was still in the air, and Neal sought to defuse it as quickly as possible. He wanted to stay breathing.

     “I think ‘The Connaught’ hotel in Midtown would be the perfect venue, Peter. They have a small, tasteful ballroom where the painting could initially be displayed, and I also happen to know that there is a tiny, concealed elevator in the rear of the ballroom. With a special key, that elevator can rise non-stop to an isolated room on the top floor of the hotel just below the roof. The room is secure, and the piece could be stored inside all night until it is shipped off to Washington in the morning. I also happen to know that there is a closet in that room where you and I could hide and await the thief. Just think, Peter, you could make the arrest of your career, and then the FBI could issue a statement clearing my good name.”

      “Oh no, Neal!” Peter said in an appalled voice. “That’s not how this works. You are not going to be anywhere nearby unless it is in handcuffs. And exactly what do you mean, ‘clear your good name?’ You have no ‘good name.’ It’s all bad because you’re bad to the bone.”

     Neal looked crestfallen. “You wound me, Peter, just when I thought that we were getting along so well. I really hate to play this card, but if you don’t let me be your partner for the night, none of this is happening. I’ll just be on my way out of the country, and, in a week I’ll be swaying in a hammock on some island without extradition while this maniac continues to kill people and leave his sick little black posies at the scenes.”

     Peter sighed and huffed out a breath. “Let me think on this, Caffrey.” Neal could tell that Peter was still angry with him for mentioning his wife.

     “When do you think that you might come to a decision,” the young man asked timidly.

     “Like I said,” Peter reiterated, “this plan has a lot of ifs. What if your painting fails authentication? There would be no point in arranging a gala to display it.”

     “No worries, Peter,” Neal reassured the skeptical agent with a smile. “The painting will definitely pass with flying colors and get the stamp of approval.”

     Peter just groaned and made a face.


	4. This Will Rock Your World

     _The blue-eyed young man leaned back nonchalantly on the bench and thought about what he had set in motion this afternoon. Are we bonding yet, Mr. Special Agent Peter Burke? Do I have your attention now? I’ve enticed you into the game, and I think I have you right where I want you. It is so much fun to mess with your mind, but that is what you rightly deserve. You showed me no respect in the past, but that is all about to change. You still may not respect me, but now you will fear me—of that I am sure._

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Peter Burke left the neighborhood in Queens the same way that he had come—by taxi with a strange little man at the wheel. They exchanged no dialogue, so Peter had time to think about Neal’s proposal. How much should he believe, and how much was a carefully crafted fabrication? How could he trust a con man? Peter’s mind was a mess. The synapses in his brain were firing, but the right connections were not being made. His warring thoughts were giving him mixed messages. Should he come clean to Hughes and try to sell him on this outlandish sting that a wanted fugitive had suggested? Peter knew that would not end well for him, and he would probably lose his job. The flip side of the coin meant aiding and abetting a suspected serial killer. How did it all get to this point?

     There still had not been any epiphanies as the cab re-entered Lower Manhattan and encountered an unexpected traffic snarl near Little Italy. There was complete gridlock with nothing moving, and a gray haze hung low in the air around them.

     “I’ll get out here,” Peter told his mysterious driver.

     A shrug and a nod were the only responses from the man, but he did put down the window and call out as Peter strode to the sidewalk.

     “Suit—you’ll probably want this back.” Peter’s cell phone battery was then tossed in his direction.

     Peter walked the five blocks back to Victor’s, but the nearer that he got, the denser the smoke became. He quickened his steps to close the distance and found several fire engines with hook and ladder crews in the periphery around the restaurant. Peter had left his Ford Taurus parked on that block, but now he couldn’t locate it because it was no longer there. Clumps of curious, gawking onlookers were busy snapping pictures with their cell phones to capture the image of burnt and twisted metal still smoldering beside storefronts whose windows had been shattered by a blast.

     Peter froze in place, and probably would have remained that way if he weren’t jolted out of his shock by a frantic voice.

     “Peter! Peter! Are you okay!!” Diana Berrigan was rushing up to him with Clinton Jones right on her heels.

     Without waiting for an answer, she continued to babble, her words tumbling out. “We got a call that there was an explosion involving your car. We kept trying to call you, but your cell wasn’t picking up. And, well, we thought that you may have been in the car when the bomb detonated.”

     Numbly, Peter mumbled, “Phone battery died.”

     Then he shook off his malaise and went into investigative mode. “Are you sure that it was a bomb?’

     Jones had the information. “The fire marshal says that it was definitely some kind of explosive device, and your car was ground zero. They found a few pieces of a timing device in the vicinity that their arson expert will analyze for a signature. At first glance, they don’t feel that it was too sophisticated, but it definitely would have been lethal to anyone in the car at the time.”

     “Boss, what were you doing down here?” Diana wanted to know.

     Peter had a quick answer ready. “I was meeting with a confidential informant, but the meet took place away from here. Now I want to talk to the maître d’ in Victor’s. That restaurant belongs to the mob, so I’m sure they know something because they keep a close eye on the comings and goings around here. They need to protect their investment.”

     “That was our first thought,” Diana agreed. “But Mr. Salvatore, the manager and maître d’ had to be taken to the hospital because he was standing near the front windows when the blast occurred and he sustained some nasty lacerations. Maybe you can interview him there.”

     “Okay, we can table that for now. Maybe there is someone else who may have the answers—a 'Bruno' somebody. Anybody know where he is?” Peter wanted to know.

     Bruno Alberghetti, along with other customers and kitchen help, was standing nearby in a vacant parking lot being questioned by the local PD. Peter grabbed his elbow and separated him from the group. Once they were several yards away, Peter got right in the big man’s face.

     “What did you see, Bruno? What do you know? Who was messing with my car? Was the ‘the family’ responsible for that bomb?” Peter shot his questions out in a staccato fashion.

     Bruno was far from intimidated. “Look, Fed, do you actually think that my employers are going to rock the boat with you guys. We know you are just looking for an excuse to turn our business inside out. We would be stupid to give it to you. And if we were the ones setting off bombs, do you think we would have Mr. Salvatore standing right in the blast zone? Are you really as dumb as you look?”

     Peter grabbed the steroid-enhanced muscle by his shirt. “I also asked you what you saw, asshole. You had plenty of time to patrol your little fiefdom after you finished copping a feel in that back room. Maybe I should take you down to my playroom and do a cavity search to return the favor. There’s always the chance that you might even like that!”

     “Back off, Rambo,” the man hissed. “I take my responsibilities seriously, so I can say, without a doubt, that your little love letter was already in place before you ever got here. Nobody got near your car the entire time that it was parked on the street. Got any enemies, Dick Tracey? Maybe you just better duck and cover.” 

     Peter believed the guy’s story, but that did not stop other doubts being brought to the forefront. Had Caffrey planted that bomb? If it had been set with a timer, he could have activated it any time that he chose. Did he think that Peter would have been in that car on his way back to the office? But then why had the fugitive even arranged a meeting at all to pitch his ridiculous idea about working together? Why even go to the trouble?

     Peter still had no answers when Diana and Jones dropped him back at the office. Hughes looked like he had aged a decade, and promptly pulled his protégé into his office.

     “First let me say how relieved that I am to see you in one piece, Peter! The Bureau cannot afford to lose a man like you. Now what do you make of this latest development?”

     Peter was as perplexed as his superior was. “I don’t know why I was targeted, Reese, I really don’t.”

     “Well, I have certainly given it a lot of thought,” Hughes answered. “Your primary case has been Caffrey. Have you made a breakthrough so that he now feels threatened? Is that why he wants to get rid of you?” 

     “Not really,” Peter hedged. “At this moment, I have no idea of his whereabouts or where he might strike next.”

     “Well, maybe this sicko feels that you are not putting forth your best effort,” Hughes theorized. “In his criminal mind, since you have been fruitlessly chasing him for the past year, you are not giving his case the diligence that he feels it deserves. Maybe he sent you a wake-up call to step up your game. On the other hand, maybe he wants to scare you into backing off.

     At any rate, I am having a detail sit on your house for the time being. You can take one of the loaner vehicles from the motor pool until we can replace yours. Make sure to park directly in front of your house so our people can have eyes on it at all times. Now check in with the task force and then go home to your wife. I’m sure that she is worried about you.” 

     As Peter was backing out of the door, he paused for a second. “Maybe we should check all the cargo ships more closely that are leaving the ports for points south. Stowing away on a freighter would be child’s play for Caffrey to leave the country.”

     “That’s a good idea, so make it happen, Peter. On the up side, if the maniac does manage to leave, he would then be South America’s problem. Maybe those fellows in Bolivia can take him down just like they did Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

**~~~~~~~~~~**

     Elizabeth was only slightly less distraught after she spoke to Peter on the phone. It had been a narrow escape, and she could not wrap her head around an existence without Peter. Her frenzied mind drifted back to her husband’s earnest profession of love this morning. Had he experienced a premonition of some sort that he had been in danger? She knew her husband so well, and suspected that he was trying to shield her from something. Why did Peter always think that he had to protect her? She wasn’t some shrinking violet! Peter may have partners at work, but she was his partner, too. They definitely needed to talk tonight, and she wanted some straight answers.

     Since she was incapable of putting any creative thoughts together at her catering business, she told her assistant, Yvonne, that she was leaving early to go home. Of course, Satchmo was delighted to see her, and El cuddled him for a few brief moments before letting him out into the backyard. She was just fixing herself a cup of tea when there was a soft knocking on her front door. She opened it to find a handsome young man on her doorstep with an endearing smile on his face.

     “Hello Mrs. Burke. It’s so good to finally meet you after all this time.”

**~~~~~~~~~~**

     Peter finished weighing in with his colleagues on the task force. They had nothing new to report other than various phone calls that had come in from nervous museum and gallery owners who “thought” that a suspicious person was loitering too long on their premises. The patrons were all checked out by the FBI and found to be innocent art lovers. Banking institutions and jewelry stores were taking their own precautions. Most were hiring retired cops with registered firearms to stand sentry duty inside their doors.

     By six o’clock, Peter was ready to roll, collecting his temporary vehicle from the motor pool and being trailed by two FBI surveillance vehicles to his home in Brooklyn. The little parade hunkered down in front of the Burke townhome, and Peter sent his watchmen a wave as he let himself into his front door.

     An enticing aroma was emanating from the kitchen when he entered, and he followed his nose to the kitchen. It was then that he was in for the second major shock of his day—could it actually get any worse? Unbelievably, he found his wife and Neal Caffrey hovering over a large pot bubbling on the stove. The elusive fugitive immediately dodged behind El as Peter automatically drew his gun.

     “Now Peter,” the young man cajoled, “don’t get excited. Just put the gun down, please. That little vein in your temple is throbbing and that’s making me really nervous.”

     “Move away from my wife, Caffrey! Now!” Peter barked.

     “I don’t think that would be wise, Peter, because then you might actually shoot me. Tell me I’m wrong,” Neal said with quiet logic.

     “Hon,” Elizabeth said softly, “it’s okay—really. Neal means us no harm. He has been here all afternoon and actually filled me in on what’s been happening with your serial killer case. At least, now I’m not in the dark anymore,” she finished accusingly.

     “El, he might actually _be_ the serial killer,” Peter spat out, his gun never wavering.

     “That’s ridiculous, Peter,” El scoffed. “Now please, holster your gun and listen to what he has to say because I think that he might have some new insights to share. After the two of you talk, then we can have some of the paella that he’s made. I’ve tasted it and it’s delicious.”

     Peter waited for his blood pressure to return somewhere in the realm of normal parameters before slowly lowering his weapon. Not holstering it, he used it as a pointer to indicate that he wanted Caffrey to sit on the sofa in the living room. Neal eyed him warily, but finally slithered from behind El’s back, edged gingerly past Peter, and perched on the sofa. Peter took the wingchair this time, his Glock resting in his lap.

     “Speak to me, and this better be good,” the agitated FBI agent commanded.

     “Okay,” Neal said tentatively. “The most recent event that has occurred has started me thinking that we might be looking at this case all wrong.”

     “Oh, do you mean like somebody may want _me_ dead now because why else blow my car to smithereens. Is that what you are saying, Slick? By all means, please give me some new insights. I’m all ears.”

     “Now don’t get snarky, Peter, this is serious,” Neal chided. “However, you may have, in your own bumbling way, actually hit the nail on the head.”

     When Peter just sent his nemesis a glare, Neal continued. “At first, everyone thought that this laundry list of robberies and killings was all about me. I was committing them to get your attention and to play chicken with you. I now believe that this thing is, indeed, a ploy to get your attention, but I also think that I was just a tool they used to get that attention. I think this case is really all about you. Somebody is playing with your head, and I was just the weapon of choice because we have a history together. Who have you put away that may harbor a grudge big enough to do this, Peter? Surely, you have made a lot of enemies with long memories and the patience to plot out such a convoluted revenge. Any bells going off?”

     Peter contemplated the young man’s words and wondered if there was any validity to them. Were they still playing their game? Was this earnestness just another of Caffrey’s distractions to throw Peter off his stride?

     “Regardless of that possibility,” Peter remarked, “the fact remains that our serial killer is still at large and unidentified, unless, of course, he is sitting right here in my living room trying to look wide-eyed and innocent.”

     Neal sighed dramatically, and El smothered a smile.

     “Any other thoughts, Sherlock, before I place you under arrest?” Peter wanted to know.

     “I still think our best option is to set the trap that we discussed today. That would be the perfect scenario to draw him out. Just say the word and that Raphael is on its way to the MoMA. However, that will not happen if you arrest me and cart me off to lock-up. Peter, take a leap of faith and accept the fact that I am your only chance to get this killer. You need to be proactive. You just cannot sit around and wait for him to try again. The next time he may decide to target Elizabeth. Did you ever think of that? Face it, Peter, you need my help.”

     “And mine,” Elizabeth chimed in. “No more protecting me or sheltering me from your cases, Peter. I married you promising to be by your side for the good and the bad times. Almost getting killed rates as one of the bad times in my tally. So, let Neal donate the painting anonymously. Then you can hold a press conference for the media disparaging Neal to bait your mark. Let Mr. Haversham get me the gala gig so that I can bring in Neal as one of my kitchen help. It would be the perfect cover. Then the two of you could stake out the painting and hope that the killer can’t resist the challenge.”

     Peter looked at Elizabeth and wondered who this woman was who had replaced his gentle, patient wife.

     “El, there are so many things that could go wrong in this scenario. Exactly where does the FBI come into play in this little drama?”

     “Peter, you _are_ the FBI. You will be the one with the gun—the one who will take down this evil killer once and for all,” Elizabeth claimed as if that was self-evident.

     Peter was flummoxed. “So, in your version of events, I’m like the Lone Ranger. I’ll just be hanging out with my ass flapping in the breeze with only Tonto by my side, who just happens to be on the FBI’s most wanted list!”

     “I can be useful,” Neal protested, but Peter ignored him as he again looked at his wife and raised his eyebrows.

     “Of course you’ll have backup, Peter. Neal will be beside you the whole time that you are in that room, and you can have all the other FBI agents that you want practically overrun the rest of the place. However, the collar should be yours alone. This maniac has made it personal!”

     Neal’s head had been swiveling back and forth between the married couple. “I’m on team Elizabeth,” he decreed firmly.

     “Shut up, Neal, nobody asked you!” Peter could not believe this was all real.

     Finally, Peter did capitulate to a point, and turned to Neal. “Alright, let’s say that we set this in motion. You get that Raphael to the museum so that it can be authenticated. If it passes the litmus test for authenticity, then I’ll approach Hughes and try to sell him on this plan. Then, and only then, will we move forward if he green lights it. No promises. And, El, we’ll discuss your involvement at a later time,” Peter said ominously.

     Elizabeth knew that she could always bring her husband around when she wanted something. She would pick her battles when the time was right. Now she just smiled serenely and suggested that they all sit down to have a nice dinner.

     Neal stood hesitantly, still eyeing Peter’s gun. “Thank you so much for your gracious invitation, Elizabeth, but I think that you and Peter need a romantic little interlude after today’s excitement. Hopefully, you have a Navarra or Rioja rosé in your wine collection. It pairs so well with paella. Now I think it’s time for me to part ways with you both.”

     Peter cocked a wry eyebrow. “There are agents sitting on the house, Neal, so you may run into a bit of a snag.”

     “I do love challenges, Peter. They keep my skills from becoming rusty,” Neal quipped.

     “So, go out the backdoor and do your Spiderman thing over the fence, Criminal,” Peter said dismissively.

     “Aww … you know me so well Peter.”


	5. Baiting the Hook

     _Oh, Agent Burke! An armed escort is a bit over the top, don’t you think? They can’t really protect you in your home because haven’t I proven that I can enter any place that I choose? Maybe you should worry about your wife. She is a nice lady, but it would be so easy to remove her from your life. Are you perhaps feeling vulnerable and frightened now? Well, you should be scared, because I can be lethal. But I am not ready to end our little game just yet. We shall play for a bit longer so that you suffer a tad more. Eventually, you will actually come to realize who is tipping your king, and I think that you will be very surprised._

_~~~~~~~~~~_

     Three days later, the MoMA made an official statement. By a stroke of luck, the renowned museum had acquired an original Raphael painting, “ _Saint George and the Dragon_ ,” that once graced the halls of the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. Peter made sure to pay the curator a visit.

     “I’m quite interested in how you came to get hold of this missing painting,” he asked the bespectacled and proper gentleman.

     The curator smiled just a bit as he recalled the circumstances.

     “The most curious little man appeared in my office a few days ago with it rolled up in an art tube. He said that he is an avid bargain hunter who frequents auctions of unclaimed merchandise in abandoned storage lockers. He told me at length about the treasures that he has unearthed in that endeavor. Anyway, he said that he had found this painting in one of those facilities and wanted to know if it was worth anything. He thought that it was ‘pretty,’ but would not quite fit in with the paintings on velvet that he already has gracing the walls of his apartment. I had my suspicions at first, but I did due diligence on the off chance that it might be the Raphael stolen some time ago from the National Gallery.”

     “And you found that to be true?” Peter asked.

     “Yes indeed,” the curator said happily. “It is, without a doubt, the original Raphael. Three independent authenticators have signed sworn affidavits to that effect.”

     Peter shook his head and smiled wryly. So, the little punk had actually stolen that painting some years back. Why was that such a surprise?

     “Did the man who brought the painting give you his name,” Peter asked because he just had to hear this latest yarn.

     “Why yes, he did. His name was Louie DePalma, just like the character that Danny DeVitto played on that old comedy ‘ _Taxi_ ’ from the 1980s. I really did love that show,” the older man said nostalgically. “Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to reach Mr. DePalma at the number that he left. If he doesn’t return to claim it, the masterpiece will be returned to its rightful place in Washington.”

     Peter had to keep from snorting. Donning a straight face, he then offered a suggestion as to how they might locate the elusive treasure hunter. After all, publicity was good for the museum, and everybody liked to dress up and attend a gala to get their picture on the society page. When the hesitant curator started to waffle about the safety of the painting, Peter said that he would speak to his superior and arrange FBI protection during the showing.

~~~~~~~~~~

     When Peter laid out the plan—actually Neal’s plan—to Hughes, the old curmudgeon considered it thoughtfully.

     “This is really a ‘Hail Mary’ play, Peter, and has more treacherous pitfalls than I can count on both hands.”

     “Sir, we haven’t a clue where the killer might strike next, so our only plausible alternative is to dangle some bait and lure him into our net. I believe the ultimate enticement will be the little speech that I have prepared to be delivered in advance,” Peter answered as he handed his superior a drastically amended version of a draft that Neal had sent him the night before.

     Hughes read it and then sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth before giving a thoughtful reply.

     “Of course, since he seems to have some sort of grudge against you, you’ll want to be the one to give this little speech and throw down the gauntlet. Correct? Peter, pissing off a serial killer is playing with fire. You would be putting your own life on the line. Caffrey has proven that he is proficient enough to get himself into any place of his choosing. He’s a master of deception and he’s cleverly innovative.”

     Peter continued to be persuasive. “Sir, I believe the risk is worth it. I intend to address the media a few days before the event. Even though we have tried to keep certain facts under wraps, information about those calling cards has been leaked to the press. Caffrey is now being referred to as “The Black Rose Killer,” no doubt a parallel being drawn to the lurid “Black Dahlia” killer of 1947 in Los Angeles. Sensationalism is the media’s stock in trade. Undoubtedly, they will cover my 6 PM press conference, and re-play it again on the later news edition. It’s a good bet that the killer will hear of it at some point, and it will make him mad, hopefully angry enough to act.”

     Hughes was not entirely won over. “Peter, a gala filled with New York art patrons will just make our job of surveillance that much more difficult, not to mention, putting every one of those influential people in harm’s way.”

     “Reese, I don’t believe that any attempted theft will occur while the painting is on display during the gala. Caffrey is not Houdini or David Copperfield. Even he cannot make things disappear before an audience’s very eyes. I believe that he will try to snatch it when it is secured in the room on the top floor of the hotel. The back elevator from the ballroom is a small express one that ascends non-stop to that area. Only people with a special key can operate it. We can have an agent accompany the painting in the elevator to the storage room. At that point, I will take over sentry duty. I’ll stay hidden so that I can take him by surprise when he shows himself.”

     “ _If_ he shows himself,” Hughes clarified. “This could be a complete waste of time and manpower.”

     “Sir, we are expending innumerable man hours now trying to track this guy, and, so far, we have only succeeded in spinning our wheels and mopping up messes in the form of dead bodies after the fact. Let’s put those man hours toward being proactive rather than reactive.”

     Hughes was again thoughtful. “I can’t even begin to imagine how many people would have to be investigated and vetted before they would be allowed anywhere near this thing.”

     Peter thought that he might be gaining some ground. “Well, the gala will be by invitation only to well-known patrons, and the MoMA will certainly be extremely careful, sending only trusted, long-time employees to accompany the painting. Most likely, the curator will be giving the welcome speech, and I’ll prominently display myself to reassure the guests.

     The Connaught Hotel will likewise be instructed to utilize only employees who have been with them for at least a year. We can certainly get a copy of the hotel’s current clientele beforehand and check them out. My wife can cater the affair and she knows everyone on her staff. We can have undercover agents at the gala and stationed throughout the hotel on every floor. We can bring the NYPD into this and have them on standby if we need assistance. Sir, I believe this is a better way to use our manpower hours—on site rather than behind a desk.”

     Peter’s boss still had reservations. “Peter, I don’t like the idea of you being all alone just awaiting the appearance of a serial killer. You’ll need back-up.”

     Peter said the first thing that popped into his head, and it wasn’t quite a lie.

     “Don’t worry, Reese, I definitely won’t be alone. There will be someone with me.”

     Hughes finally threw in the towel. “Peter, if this morphs into a complete farce, the Bureau will have egg on their faces. I will be collecting my pension, and you will probably only find work as a bodyguard to some rock star. This plan is so outlandish, I can’t believe that the MoMA is agreeing to it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Actually, there was some merit to Hughes’ last comment. Two days later, the curator had developed some reservations and called Peter to tell him so. However, thanks to a certain forger, Peter had a remedy for the man’s case of cold feet. The night before, one of Peter’s FBI surveillance team had knocked on his door in the early evening hours. The agent had a small, agitated man in his grasp.

     “Sir, we discovered this character lurking around your house. We searched him and this is all that we found,” the man said as he handed Peter a long art tube.

     “Unhand me, you philistine. I do not lurk!” The diminutive dynamo all but roared.

     Peter actually did a double take at the van dyke beard and blond mullet, but he quickly recognized his moonlighting taxi driver.

     “It’s okay, Franklin,” Peter reassured his team member. I have made Mr. DePalma’s acquaintance before and he is not a threat.”

     Peter brought the little man into his foyer, then stood with his hands on his hips and demanded, “What are you doing here at my house? Whatever excuse that you have better be a good one, or I’ll arrest you for operating a cab without a license.”

     All that Peter got in response was a derisive snort. “Neal anticipated that the curator at the museum might be having shpilkes—that’s Yiddish for a case of nerves, just so you know. So, in his infinite wisdom, Neal created a little ‘paint-by-numbers’ copy to replace the original for the upcoming unveiling.”

     Peter opened the art tube and pulled out an exquisite version of “ _Saint George and the Dragon_.” Even to Peter’s untrained eye, the painting was magnificent. He had forgotten what a talented forger Neal Caffrey was when he put his mind to the task. Without a doubt, this beautiful copy could wow an audience of art enthusiasts at the gala.

     The MoMA curator was likewise impressed. “Please tell me who this very talented artist is, Agent Burke. Our institution could surely use his expertise as an art restorer. We would certainly make it worth his while to entertain the possibility of signing a contract with us.”

     Peter suppressed a smirk. “I am sure that this particular artist might be tempted to find a niche for himself in your museum, but I believe that he may be tied up for an indeterminate time in the very near future.”

     “Well, that’s much the pity. It will certainly be our loss,” the curator lamented.

     Hopefully, Peter thought to himself, that will be your only loss at the hands of Neal Caffrey.

~~~~~~~~~~

     By the end of the week, airtime had been secured for both the Honorary Chairman of the MoMA and Peter to appear on television. The Chairman appeared first at the podium amidst flashing camera lights and genteel applause.

     “Ladies and Gentlemen, good evening. And it is, indeed, a very good evening heralded by wonderful news. Perhaps some of you are already aware that our fine institution, the Museum of Modern Art, has acquired a piece of history. Yes, my fellow art enthusiasts, our fair city is currently playing host to an extraordinary example of High Renaissance perfection by none other than Raphael, himself.

     The particular piece to which I am referring was originally commissioned by the Duke of Urbino in 1504. It took the great painter, Raphael, two years to complete his masterpiece. The result was worth the wait. Owing most of his inspiration to his venerable teachers, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, nevertheless, was an artistic genius in his own right. _‘Saint George and the Dragon,’_ just a small 18” by 21” oil painting depicting a unique blend of chivalry and Christianity, is priceless. How can one put a value on a piece of history?

     Just like so many extraordinary stories, this particular painting has a unique mystique surrounding it. Some years ago, it was brazenly removed from the National Gallery of Art in our nation’s capitol. We, in the art world, thought it was lost forever. Then serendipitously, it was rescued and resurrected like a phoenix from the ashes. A very benevolent patron, who prefers to remain anonymous, accidently stumbled onto this prodigious find. Even though he has been made aware of the painting’s provenance and untold value, he has graciously donated it to us. _‘Saint George and the Dragon’_ is now once again been brought back into the fold. We owe that magnanimous man a deep debt of gratitude.”

     The bombastic speaker started to applaud softly, and the assembled audience followed suit. When it had quieted, he continued.

     “As all of you are no doubt aware, the MoMA is a place that fuels creativity, ignites minds, and provides inspiration. Our primary focus is the creation and display of unique modernist art, and may I immodestly state that we are often identified as the most influential museum of modern art in the world. As such, we are content to play to our strengths. Therefore, we will eventually be sending this Renaissance gem back where it belongs in the National Gallery in Washington to take its rightful place among the likes of Botticelli and Titian.

     However, before it leaves New York, we hope that some of you will take us up on our invitation to view it when it is displayed at an upcoming one-night gala at the Connaught Hotel next Saturday evening. To take some license with the odd phrase, ‘the invitations are in the mail.’”

     After the polite tittering quieted, the Chairman turned to Peter, who was standing by his side.

     “Now we have an esteemed member of the White Collar division of the FBI who would like to say a few words that I believe will be most reassuring to all of you.”

     Peter then moved to stand in front of the dais. Clearing his throat, he began baiting his hook.

     “Ladies and gentleman, my name is Peter Burke and, as the Chairman said, I am an FBI agent connected to the White Collar Division here in New York. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to address you tonight. I can only hope that the diligent members of the press will get my message out to everyone, because I believe that there may be some degree of fear amongst many New Yorkers, and I wouldn’t want that to affect the upcoming event.

     The dedicated members of the fifth estate, the journalists and the bloggers and the news media, have made you painfully aware of the current crisis in our city. Of course, I am referring to the audacious robberies and horrendous murders committed by ‘The Black Rose Killer.’ We at the FBI know the identity of this madman. His name is Neal Caffrey and he is now our top priority.

     Neal Caffrey is not a stranger to us. We already know a lot about this young thief who has turned killer. Originally, when he embarked on his road to ruin, he appeared to be a somewhat talented artist. However, even though the work that he sought to pawn off on the unschooled and naïve was adequate, it was far from inspiring. Caffrey may have had visions of grandeur at the time, picturing himself as the modern day version of the next Raphael, but, in essence, he was simply a run-of-the-mill hack. There are a lot of those wannabe renowned painters out there. You can see them on any given day in Washington Square or Central Park doing caricature portraits for tourists.

     Thus, failing miserably as a credible forger, he then decided that what he was not capable of producing, he would steal. In his spare time, he also turned to other things—frauds, pyramid schemes, identity theft. We had his history on file, and it was less than noteworthy or impressive. At that time, there were scores of White Collar criminals on our dance card that Caffrey could not hold a candle to on his best day, so we placed him far down the list of our priorities. Perhaps that is why this depraved individual has suddenly decided to seek greater attention by turning to murder and mayhem to fuel his hungry ego.

     Ladies and gentlemen, any psycho walking the streets of our country can use a knife, a gun, or even toxic chemicals to kill during the course of a robbery. That requires no special skills. The bottom line is this: Neal Caffrey is not skillful, he is not talented, he is not even clever. Neal Caffrey is simply iniquitous and desperate, and completely incapable of masterminding anything more impressive than a smash and grab. He would be an idiot to try to get near this Raphael. That endeavor is greatly beyond his skill set. However, even if he is crazy enough to think that he can pull it off, that concept is a pipe dream—it just will not happen. Not on my watch. I will personally be overseeing the safety of _‘Saint George and the Dragon’_ while it is on display at the Connaught during the gala. If any of you here tonight have the honor of attending, you will see me there on the job. Neal Caffrey does not scare me. Neal Caffrey is a buffoon.

     In closing, just let me reassure you, once and for all. The FBI’s track record of apprehending criminals of every ilk is stellar. During our illustrious history, the Bureau has brought the likes of John Dillinger, Al Capone, John Gotti, and the Unabomber to justice. When we set our sights on a criminal, they will fall and fall hard. Caffrey’s days are numbered, and I intend to be the one to take down this sad representation of a human being.”

     Finally, Peter stepped away from the microphone and relaxed a bit. Journalists were checking their recording devices, and the cameras were now cutting to newscasters on the scene to get their off-the-cuff comments regarding his little speech. Peter knew that Neal was watching, and the FBI agent wondered how he would react to the much-edited commentary. It was not exactly what Neal had initially written. Peter had ramped up the disparaging words quite a bit, so it was anybody’s guess how the con man felt about that!


	6. Now You See Him; Now You Don't!

_The “Black Rose Killer” was livid! Do you really think that you can get away with saying all of those malicious, disrespectful falsehoods about me, Agent Burke? I will show you what magnificent, skillful feats that I am capable of on Saturday night. I will show you my formidable talent, and maybe I will kill you then. Or perhaps I will return to kill you at a later time of my choosing. Make no mistake—whenever you die, it will be a slow and painful death, I can assure you. That will be my greatest triumph. Your days are numbered, you posturing clown, not mine._

_~~~~~~~~~~_

     On Saturday night, all systems were a go. One hundred coveted invitations had been hand-delivered to an elite cadre that even included the mayor and his wife. The small ballroom was tastefully decorated with soft lighting, flickering candles, and floral arrangements on the tables. A small string trio was playing classical lilting strains in an inconspicuous corner. At the far end of the room, a covered easel stood like a lone debutante wallflower awaiting attention from prospective suitors. The unveiling of the object that everyone had come to see would occur after the party guests had all been seated.

     Elizabeth and her staff were busy in the kitchen performing their culinary magic, and her waiters were properly attired in white shirts, black pants, brocaded gold  vests, and matching gold bow ties. Holding silver trays of champagne flutes, they glided effortlessly through an elegantly dressed crowd of tuxedoed men with paunches and ladies in beaded gowns with upswept hairdos. To Peter’s consternation, one of those strolling waiters bore a striking resemblance to a certain taxi driver—same face, although a different follicular accoutrement. Peter just sighed in exasperation and wondered when his life had become a “Three Stooges” parody, with two of the Stooges being of the criminal persuasion.

      Many of the other guests in attendance had gotten their own very special invitations. They were all undercover federal agents with transmitters in their faux Rolexes and in their sparkling bracelets, and handguns tucked behind cummerbunds and in small sequined purses. Although lacking an aristocratic pedigree, their impressive lineage harkened back to their rigorous training at Quantico. Other agents, dressed as valets, maids, and room service employees, relentlessly patrolled each and every floor of the hotel. As Peter had promised Hughes, the scene was buttoned down tight.

     Peter was also dressed in a tuxedo, courtesy of a local rental establishment. He had the prerequisite earbud in place opened to his team’s frequency. He surreptitiously nodded to Jones and Diana who had come together to the affair as a wealthy young yuppie couple. He left them standing in his place beside the shrouded prize so that he could check out the kitchen. If Caffrey was there as he promised, he certainly did not want any of his team to get a glance.

     It took a bit of scanning, but Peter finally located Neal, dressed in tight black pants and an equally snug button-front black shirt. The agent could only marvel at the chameleon-like quality that was the hallmark of the con artist’s forte. He could blend in anywhere, even at a prep station preparing some intricate little hors d’oeuvres using mushrooms, olives, and strange, wispy green sprigs that the federal agent could not identify.

     Peter temporarily deactivated his earpiece. He sidled up to Neal, but turned to face in the opposite direction while he whispered, “Dressed in cat burglar black, I see.”    

     That wasn’t quite the topic of conversation that Neal wanted to discuss at the moment.

     “Peter, that little speech that you gave the other night was kind of harsh. You were supposed to just dent and scratch my reputation, not demolish it,” Neal complained under his breath, never taking his eyes off the canapés that he was assembling. “That was quite a bit different than the draft that I wrote for you, _Partner_.”

     “I am not your _Partner_ , Neal. Don’t ever call me that,” Peter complained. “Besides, you won’t need a reputation after this is over because the only artwork that you’ll be doing is fashioning license plates in Sing Sing’s workshop.”

     Neal was definitely cranky and not up for derisive mocking.

     “Don’t you have somewhere that you need to be right now, Agent Burke? Your public awaits you so that they can feel _sooo_ much safer. Go out there and do your job to justify the fat salary that the good taxpayers of Gotham are paying you!”

     Peter refused to get into a verbal sparring match with his nemesis. He defiantly turned on his earbud again and strode purposely from the room after grimacing in El’s direction. She smiled back tentatively hoping that Peter would interpret it as encouragement and support.

     After the assembled guests had completed all the air kisses and handshakes, and had their fill of bubbling libations and bite-sized tidbits, the string ensemble concluded their rendition of Pachelbel. Now everyone was meandering around to find their designated table. As quiet descended, the track lights above the covered easel were turned on, and, instead of the curator, a distinguished member of the MoMA’s Board of Directors took center stage.

     “Ladies and Gentleman, now for the highlight of the evening—what you have all come to see. I will not bore you with speeches tonight because you have waited long enough. So, without further ado, I present to you Raphael’s _“Saint George and the Dragon,”_ in all of its splendor.”

      The cloth cover was then gently removed, and a collective appreciative gasp of admiration arose from those around the room. “ _So magnificent_ ,” “ _utterly glorious_ ,” “ _a beguiling masterpiece_ ,” were but a few of the phrases being whispered. Neal, standing by the kitchen door smiled to himself. _“That’s vindication, Agent Burke. Regardless of what you claimed, I really am that good.”_

After the dinner portion of the evening, small groups of art patrons were then allowed to get up close and personal with a “Renaissance masterpiece.” Peter had remained standing like a cigar store Indian beside Neal’s Saint George for the greater part of forty-five minutes. He was really glad to see the last guest depart near the stroke of midnight. Now it was the bewitching hour—show time in this little drama that was hopefully about to unfold. An agent would now load the masterpiece, still on its easel, into the tiny elevator hidden behind a screen in the ballroom and accompany it to the 10th floor where Peter would meet him and take over protection. After that agent departed, Peter would remain hidden while he laid in wait for a serial killer.

     El approached the con artist in the kitchen. “It’s time for you to keep my husband safe, Neal,” she whispered.

     Turning an intently serious face to the anxious woman, he responded quietly, “Don’t worry, Elizabeth, I promise that I’ll definitely take care of Peter.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Stationing a solemn and competent agent at the bottom door to the fire stairs, Peter tediously mounted the series of flights, floor by floor, passing a focused agent on every level. Finally, he reached the 10th and top tier. He then quickly let himself into the storage quarters. Using his means of wire communication with his team, he gave the order for the elevator in the ballroom to close and begin its ascent. Its only passengers were the painting and its Bureau escort. He watched as the ornate, old-fashioned arrow above the elevator moved slowly but steadily—II … III … IV … V ….. around the half-moon wrought-iron plate on the wall above. Suddenly, with almost a sixth sense, Peter felt a presence at his back. Why wasn’t he surprised to find that Neal Caffrey had already gained access to the room, and was now lurking there in the shadows?

     “So, Neal, apparently you’ve gotten over your little snit and have decided to join the party,” Peter quipped snidely.

     Neal gave him an unfathomable look. “According to our bargain, Agent Burke, this is where I should be. And I must admit, it’s really an exhilarating experience waiting for my alter-ego to come out to play.”

     Together, the two men stood, side by side, as the elevator’s ascent continued, non-stop, on its journey—VI … VII … VIII … IX.

     “Okay, Criminal, make yourself scarce until I get the painting out of the car and dismiss the agent escorting it,” Peter ordered.

     He had already turned his attention back to the elevator doors, and assumed that the rustling he heard behind him was Neal secreting himself in that storage closet. The arrow on the elevator medallion finally slowed to a stop on “X,” and Peter waited for the doors to open. When they remained firmly shut, Peter knocked tentatively, but got no response. A sense of foreboding gripped his gut, and with desperate fingers, he began to pry apart the center seam in the metal. Suddenly, the federal agent felt as if he had been hit with a sledgehammer, and he knew that he must have involuntarily made some cry of distress.

     Neal had silently materialized at his elbow, and when Peter dared to glance over at him, he noted that all the color had drained from the young man’s face. Neal could not seem to tear his eyes away from the tableau that had just shaken Peter to the core. The empty easel lay on its side—the painting nowhere to be found. However, the agent who had been the escort remained. He was slumped in a corner, eyes gazing straight ahead in a death stare. The gash to the side of his neck had drained practically all of his sustaining life force in a river of red, and a damning black rose was floating in that tide.

     “How could this have happened?” a shaken Peter whispered. “How in the hell did he do this!”

     Neal was frantically scanning the elevator car, and his sharp eyes picked up a smear of red on the handle of the small emergency escape door in the ceiling.

     “Peter, the killer was already here the whole time—he was lying in wait on the top of the elevator car, and after it started the ascent, he dropped down from above and took the agent by surprise.”

     Peter, being the taller of the two, stretched his arms overhead and dislodged the trap door. All that he saw above were cables, pipes, conduits for wiring, and lots of dusty cobwebs. But that did not stop Neal from leaping to grab onto the edges of the opening, nimbly pulling himself up, and poking his head into the semi-darkness.

     “Peter, I see a hole in the roof! That’s how he got in. His way in was also his way out,” Neal said excitedly. Then, with eel-like suppleness, the slim con artist shrugged and shifted his shoulders, sliding through the portal in seconds.

     “NEAL! Come back here!” Peter shouted as he simultaneous activated his micro-transmitter to alert his team.

     “All units—there’s a man down in the elevator! The killer is making his escape via the roof! He’s on the ROOF, people!!”

     Knowing that he could never hoist his larger frame up through the opening in the elevator ceiling, Peter rushed back to the fire stairs, drew his gun, and pushed hard on the crossbar of the door at the top of the steps. Although locked from the outside, as per safety code, the egress did open from within. Cautiously poking his head out, Peter saw the hole in the roof just a few yards away. Then his attention became focused on two dark figures engaged in a frantic footrace across the tar and gravel surface.

     Both wore dark clothes and their features were indistinguishable in the night. However, the one with a short lead had an art tube strapped across his back. The pursuing figure was closing the gap with dogged determination, athletically careening around air conditioning units and protruding exhaust vents as if they were defending linebackers on the gridiron.

     The man that Peter assumed was the fleeing killer suddenly found himself running out of rooftop. He pulled up temporarily, shrugged off the burden from his back, and flung it onto the top of the next building. Backing up a few steps, he quickly negotiated the wide gap between his current position and the next flat surface with a desperate leap, landing hard and rolling. Neal never slowed or missed a stride as he soared across the abyss in hot pursuit. Peter’s heart was in his throat. Jesus! They were ten stories up and one misstep, one miscalculated trajectory, would be the end.

     As he stood transfixed, there was a sudden commotion around him. Members of a SWAT team in full regalia had finally reached the summit. Trailing them were members of Peter’s FBI team.

     “You okay, Boss?” Diana asked anxiously.

     “Yeah, yeah,” Peter hastened to reassure her, “but we can’t let the killer get away,” he added as his eyes followed the racing figures.

     “What’s going on out there?” Jones wanted to know. “Who is chasing who?”

     All of a sudden, an NYPD chopper was looming above them, its search light illuminating two men in black clothing facing off on an adjacent rooftop. One had a lethal-looking knife that he slashed through the air threateningly at his pursuer. That figure pirouetted gracefully, avoiding the thrusts, and the two continued to circle each other like menacing tigers on the prowl. Suddenly, the unarmed figure feinted, and then dove for the would-be assassin’s legs, causing them both to tumble perilously close to the edge of the roof. Peter found that he couldn’t breathe as he saw the knife gleam in the reflection of the artificial light. The deadly weapon came down again and again.

     “Who _is_ that over there, Peter?” Jones again demanded to know. “Is he one of ours?”

     Without tearing his eyes away from the nail-biting drama across the rooftops, Peter finally enlightened his junior agents. “One of them is the real Neal Caffrey, and the young fool is trying to take down a psychotic killer all by himself!”

     Peter would never be able to understand how he did it, but by some impressive combination of Jackie Chan moves, Neal succeeded in knocking the knife from the killer’s hand and subduing him temporarily on the ground until the pair was suddenly encircled by another responding SWAT team. With ominous assault rifles locked and loaded, broad-shouldered, no-nonsense storm troopers began bellowing,  “On your knees! On your knees! Hands on your head! Now!!”

     Neal carefully climbed off his adversary’s torso and slowly raised his right arm until he could place his hand on the back of his neck. His left arm only made it as far as shoulder height. The con artist was suddenly mesmerized by the sight of his own blood dripping steadily from his extended forearm. He cocked his head and looked confused for a minute, and although the fevered shouts from the SWAT team continued, in Neal Caffrey’s world the clamor began to fade. There was a buzzing in his ears that was getting louder, and his vision was narrowing to just a small pinpoint of light. Then, in elegantly choreographed slow motion, Neal gently wilted onto the grit of the rooftop.

~~~~~~~~~~

      Peter walked over to the back of an ambulance where he found Neal seated on a gurney with his right wrist handcuffed to the rail. A vigilant NYPD officer stood at the doors of the vehicle watching an EMT carefully bandage the slash on Neal’s other arm.

     Neal looked up and smiled when the agent approached. “I took that bastard down, Peter,” the con man said with a self-satisfied shake of his head.

     “Yes, you did,” Peter agreed. “But you were also an impulsive, reckless idiot.”

     “You’re welcome, Agent Burke,” Neal responded sarcastically.

     “Why did you do it, Neal? Why almost get yourself killed?” Peter wanted to know.

     “Peter, this dude besmirched my reputation, and that just wasn’t acceptable,” the con man sincerely declared.

     “Neal, you sound like some outraged, insulted, southern gentleman from the antebellum era. Maybe you should have just challenged him to a duel to avenge your ‘good’ name,” the agent answered drolly.

     The young man looked at him with his eyebrows raised, “I think that I sorta did.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     It took some time to arrange secure transport for the “Black Rose Killer” to the FBI lockup. Afterwards, Peter had to oversee the removal of the dead agent after the coroner had pronounced him and signed the death certificate. The next thing on Peter’s agenda would be going to the hospital to take Caffrey into custody if the ER physicians released him from their care. Then, when he returned to FBI headquarters, Peter knew that he would have to file some kind of heavily redacted report about what went down tonight. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing that he was going to have to creatively spin this whole thing to explain Caffrey’s sudden appearance.

     It was Diana who approached him before he got into his car. Her expression was like a harbinger of bad news.

     “Peter, Caffrey has disappeared,” she said succinctly, leading him back to where that ambulance had been parked. It was still there—just minus its occupant. Elbowing his way through a mass of curious spectators, the disgruntled federal agent found a bevy of cops surrounding one very frightened EMT and an obviously embarrassed NYPD patrolman. Flashing his FBI badge was the equivalent of parting the waters of the Red Sea.

     “Tell me how he got away,” Peter demanded.

     The EMT looked askance at the beat cop as he started to tell his tale of woe.

     “Look, Agent, it wasn’t my fault. The policeman had the guy handcuffed and he was supposed to be keeping an eye on him. The patient was stable and quiet, not giving anybody any trouble. But the detective in charge said that we had to be cleared to hit the road to the hospital before I could move my rig an inch. So, I was just sitting here on the back waiting.

     Now, as you can see, there’s a really big crowd gathered around, all stretching their necks to get a good look, maybe hoping to see something bloody and gory. I never get that morbid streak in people, I really don’t, but I suppose it’s human nature.

     Anyway, out of nowhere, there’s this short, bald guy near the front of the crowd gasping for breath. He’s clutching at his chest and begging someone to help him because he can’t breathe. Look man, I’m a paramedic—a first responder. This is what I do, so I grab my gear and practically catch the man as he falls, and I begin to do my triage assessment. You can ask the cop, here. That’s how it all went down, I swear.”

     Now, the NYPD patrolman is on the hot seat, and it is his turn to shed some light on the fiasco. Clearing his throat nervously, he offered his version.

      “He’s right, ya know. All of a sudden, it was chaos when this man looked like he was dying right before our eyes, so I instinctively moved in to clear the crowd back so they wouldn’t trample the poor guy while he was on the ground. I only turned my back for maybe a minute or two tops, and, well ……… when I looked back, the perp was gone. He just disappeared into thin air—left the cuffs dangling from the stretcher rail and was just gone.”

     Peter shook his head and grimaced. But then he had to ask.

     “By chance, did this fellow in distress—the one who claimed that he couldn’t breathe—get better? Tell me what happened to him.”

     The EMT was only too happy to respond to that question. “Thankfully, I think he was only suffering a panic attack. I put some oxygen on him and he settled right down. I listened to his lungs and they were clear, and his heart sounds were normal. I sat beside him for a few minutes, but then Mr. DePalma refused any further treatment. I lost track of him after that because it was then that we discovered the handcuffed guy was missing. At that point, you might say that all hell broke loose.”


	7. Epilogue

     It had taken quite a while to calm an irate Reese Hughes, who was almost foaming at the mouth with anger and annoyance.

     “We had the little SOB right in our hands and then we let him get away!” Undoubtedly, the ASAC was referring to Neal Caffrey.

     Peter tried to soothe the ranting man sitting in the chair across from him.

     “Well, technically, Sir, we are not the ones responsible for letting him escape. That’s on the NYPD. They were the ones temporarily guarding him until we could mop up the scene.”

     Peter had a few shameful qualms about passing the buck, but a little artful misdirection seemed to be his best option right now, and he continued in that vein.

     “Reese, what _is_ important is that we _do_ have the “Black Rose Killer” in custody. We can play that up, and that will be the primary thing that New York citizenry will remember. They won’t dwell on the one that got away; they will focus on the one who didn’t.”

     Hughes was placated just a bit, but still testy.

     “I just don’t get what Neal Caffrey was even doing there. Is it possible that he and the killer were a team and working together? Maybe, at the eleventh hour, when they thought that they had a priceless masterpiece in their hot, little hands, things got ugly. Criminals double-cross each other all the time. Maybe, on a nefarious whim, it was winner take all, at any cost, and somebody was destined to be thrown under the bus.”

     “Reese, we have interrogated the killer at length, and he has said that he, alone, was responsible for all the thefts and murders. He is proud of himself, bragging about every little facet of his deadly acts. He has been interviewed by our in-house shrink who believes him to be legally sane, and the psychiatrist has no doubts that his claims are anything but legitimate. He has too much knowledge of every detail for this to be a hoax, and there is no way that he can get out of prosecution for the murder at the gala. We have him red-handed on that one—literally. The dead agent’s blood was all over him, the knife that he was wielding was determined to be the murder weapon, and his were the only fingerprints on the handle. It’s a slam-dunk, airtight case. I’m sure the DA will be going for the death penalty.”

     The ASAC was not about to let it alone. “Well, that brings us back to my original question. What in the hell was Neal Caffrey doing at the scene? Was he planning on stealing the painting on his own?”

     Now here was the minefield that Peter would have to tiptoe through gingerly.

     “No, Sir, I don’t believe that was the motivation behind his sudden appearance. I think that my disparaging, confrontational little sound bite this past week may have upset the real Neal Caffrey. I ‘besmirched’ his reputation, so to speak, and I believe that he got it into his mind to catch and expose the real psychotic killer to restore his reputation as a ‘Gentleman Criminal.’

     Hughes eyebrows reached for his almost non-existent hairline. “Are you serious, Peter? ‘Besmirched’ his reputation—what a quaint way to put it, not to mention, really far-fetched. Why risk plunking yourself down in the midst of a battalion of federal agents and local PD simply to prove a point? It just makes no sense!”

     “Well, Reese, we have never been able to figure out much about what’s going on in Neal Caffrey’s head. He is mercurial, unpredictable, impulsive, shrewd, and cunning—all of those adjectives are things that we _do_ know. The only thing that has never changed about him is his modus operandi—he never threatens or harms his marks, never uses weapons or force. I believe that he takes pride in that, so you can understand how the ‘Black Rose Killer’ may have ruffled his feathers.”

     Hughes looked unconvinced. “So your _theory_ is that Caffrey’s feelings were hurt when he took a hit to his ego, and that is why he did this crazy thing?”

     “Yes, Sir, that is my _theory._ Caffrey has never made any sense before, so my conjecture may be on the money, and come as no surprise,” Peter answered while avoiding his boss’s glare.

     “Well, I’ll never see him as some kind of vigilante hero, Peter. After all, he’s still committing crimes right under our noses.”

     Peter knew that Hughes was referring to the complaint that the White Collar office had fielded just yesterday from the MoMA. A frantic and flustered curator had phoned Peter, and was so beside himself, it was hard for the dedicated, older man to get the words out. Somehow, the authentic Raphael painting of _“Saint George and the Dragon”_ had mysteriously disappeared from the museum’s impenetrable vault.

     Peter had simply closed his eyes and begun to rub the threatening headache behind his temples. However, he did promise to send a forensic team to the museum to investigate, but, in his heart, Peter knew the professional sleuths would find absolutely nothing. The federal agent continued to feel bad for the distraught little curator who was almost in a state of mourning. Therefore, when the FBI released Neal’s exquisite forgery from the evidence room, Peter personally took it to the MoMA as a token to express his sympathy.

     “Perhaps you should display this in your museum,” Peter suggested. “Even though patrons will know it is not the original, I’ll bet this painting’s infamous legend will have the curious queuing up to see it. People love a good mystery or adventure story. I am sure that you have heard how visitors to Paris flocked to the Louvre after the _Mona Lisa_ was stolen in 1911. For two years, they clamored to see the empty space where the smiling lady had hung on the wall before her abduction. And if you don’t like that suggestion, you could always have replicas of this forgery made into posters to sell in your gift shop.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     The end of the workweek could not come fast enough for Peter. He was definitely looking forward to some much-needed down time with his wife and his dog and a six-pack of beer. El had outdone herself preparing a wonderfully mouthwatering standing rib roast accompanied by fat, starchy baked potatoes. Afterwards, Peter was in his glory watching a football game on television and letting his food digest. Of course, the contest went into overtime, and El had long since retired upstairs.

     Now, Peter was alone with just a snoring dog and his thoughts. He slowly extracted the burner phone that he still possessed from his jeans, and tapped its edge against his lips in deep contemplation. Should he, or shouldn’t he? Neal probably wouldn’t answer—why would he? Their collaboration had run its course and it was over. Neal would go back to his little hobby of forging and stealing, and Peter would go back to trying to catch him. It was their symbiotic little dance, the order in their universe. But maybe, just maybe ……

     Before he had a change of heart, Peter pushed the only number on speed-dial. Unbelievably, after a few seconds, Neal’s soft tenor voice floated over the airways.

      “Hello, Peter. We’re apart for a while and you don’t write, you don’t call—I was beginning to feel unloved.”

     The FBI agent grinned in spite of himself. He listened closely and could hear the rhythmic rushing of cascading waves upon some shore, and the far-away call of a seabird. Peter wondered what time of day it was in Neal Caffrey’s world right now. Finally, he found his voice.

     “Hello, Neal,” he breathed almost fondly. “I’m surprised that you took my call. How’s the arm, by the way? Any problems?”

     “Nah, I’m a quick healer, but thanks for asking,” Neal said politely, then got to the meat of the conversation.

     “Peter,” Neal chided, “I have been waiting with baited breath to hear, as Paul Harvey used to say, ‘ _the rest of the story_.’ Do tell!”

     “Seriously, Neal,” Peter taunted, “haven’t you had your fill of reading those front page headlines for the last week in the _New York Times_? Oh, wait—my bad! They don’t do home delivery of the _Times_ in your neck of the woods, do they. Where is that exactly—perhaps another hemisphere halfway around the world? If you give me your address, Buddy, I would be happy to forward copies of them to you.”

     “Hot damn, Peter,” Neal chortled, “you are finally getting the hang of this sarcastic bantering thing. I love it!”

     Peter laughed at Neal’s glee, and it felt good—there was really no other word for it. How had a dedicated FBI agent come to develop an affinity, maybe even an affection, for a criminal? Just as Peter had told Hughes, with Caffrey nothing made sense.

     “Well, since you have been so patient,” Peter began, “I will fill you in at the risk of making your ego any grander in size. You were right, Neal. This whole horribly, bloody saga was directed at me, and I never saw it coming.

     Five years ago, when I first got a desk in the White Collar office, I was relegated to scut work to pay my dues. That meant that I had to track down every mediocre forger that ever set foot in Manhattan who had hopes of making a big score. It was like shooting fish in a barrel; even the fences started giving me a heads up because they would get annoyed with the pests. That is how I glommed onto one such paragon of persistence named Robert Reinhardt.

     Robert Reinhardt had originally hailed from the Midwest, a small town in Wisconsin, to be exact. He was an only child of parents who owned a dairy farm out in the country. His father expected that his son would enter the family business after he graduated from high school, but young Robert had other plans. He considered himself a talented, budding artist on the cusp of great things, and wanted his family to ante up the funds to send him to art school in New York. It was the young man’s only vision of a future for himself, and, even when his father refused to support such aspirations, Robert made it happen.

     One evening before high school graduation, both Mr. and Mrs. Reinhardt died in their beds, apparently succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning from an old, faulty furnace. Serendipitously, Robert was not in the house at the time. He claimed that there was a sick calf that he had spent the night watching over in the barn. Investigating authorities were suspicious, of course, but they couldn’t prove anything. Eventually, when they closed their case, Robert collected a small insurance policy that his father had, and sold the farm to developers for a tidy little sum, even in a depressed market.

     He landed in our fair city with an art portfolio in his hand and made the rounds of art schools, colleges, and universities. He took some classes in a few institutions, but basically, his talent was less than adequate, and he received little encouragement from teachers and mentors.

     Now, living in Manhattan is an expensive endeavor, and eventually, his little nest egg began dwindling. So, he decided to try his hand at forging and passing his attempts off to fences. That brought him into my crosshairs and I arrested him three years ago.

     Now here is where it gets really interesting—where the engine uncoupled from the other cars and we had a runaway train. Reinhardt now claims that during my interrogation way back then, I disrespected him and did not recognize his brilliance. Talking about it now, he really gets all worked up, raving like a lunatic. Somehow, I became the focus of everything bad that had ever happened to him, and he wanted to get even.

     Well, after I arrested him that first and only time, he got off rather easy. Since it was his first known offense, he got a light sentence of two years in a federal penitentiary. However, it was while in prison that he got his real education. He came to hear about you. Apparently, you were a frequent topic of conversation over dinner in Sing Sing—who knew? Your fans of the criminal ilk extoled your virtues and talents encompassing a wide spectrum of the ‘arts.’ They also bandied my name around as the dogged FBI agent obsessed with capturing you. So, in a stroke of genius, our burgeoning young killer decided to emulate your crimes in the hopes of drawing me out.

     Another scenario may be that in some deranged fashion, he was trying to become you. It’s kind of eerie when you see him. He is about your age, of similar height and build, and he has dyed his naturally blond hair a dark brown, and wears blue-tinted contact lenses. The two of you really do not share any facial likeness, but who knows what this guy sees when he looks in the mirror?

      Anyway, Reinhardt has confessed pretty convincingly to all the robberies and murders, and even admitted that he planned to kill me when he could engineer the opportunity. So, I thank you for stopping him when you did, Neal.”

     Neal had been silent through this whole recitation. Finally, he spoke softly.

      “So, he decided to step up his game from art to murder, and used my reputation in a misguided attempt to get to you. But, he had it all wrong, Peter. If he knew anything at all about me, he had to know that I would never hurt anybody.”

     Peter sighed into the phone. “Neal, disturbed narcissistic people develop their own unique mindset. They pick and choose the facts that they want. Their world becomes skewed—it’s always somebody else’s fault, or someone out there is guilty of standing in their path to greatness. They never take responsibility for their actions. It is particularly true in this instance. Reinhardt was happy as a clam to let Neal Caffrey take responsibility for killing six people—actually seven, if you include the agent in the elevator. I’m just happy that you and I could take him down, Pal. We worked well together, and it’s a shame that we come at things from different sides of the law.”

     “Yeah,” Neal agreed, “we would make a good team—Caffrey and Burke, at your service. I could do the end-around stuff to accomplish the things that the ‘good guys’ couldn’t do to get the job done.”

     “Not happening, Buddy,” Peter assured his adversary.

     Neal begged to differ, “Stranger things have occurred, Peter, than an unlikely partnership between a criminal and an FBI agent.”

     “Really?” Peter remarked drolly. “Tell me, is this all supposed to happen after you do your little stint in prison for your past crimes? Which brings up another thing. How did you steal back that Raphael, Neal?”

     “ _Allegedly_ stole, Peter— _allegedly_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have had the patience to stick with this long story until the end. I appreciate your kudos and comments. And thanks to Treon who reviewed this beforehand. She caught some typos, and pointed out the need for some clarifications.


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